Nastasen grunted. ‘She is an arrogant bitch. She looks at each of us as if we are but dirt beneath her feet.’
Titus looked straight at him. ‘Stick said she knew how to fight, Nastasen. If she deserves a beating, then administer one. But from now on you leave your hatred of her away from my training ground. I don’t need damaged goods. Is that clear?’
‘Of course.’ The big Nubian shrugged, trying to assume an air of nonchalance, but Titus could see the rage seething behind his eyes. Thrashing the haughty Greek gave Nastasen altogether too much pleasure.
‘Go and work with the veterans today,’ Titus said. Nastasen nodded and made off without another word.
Catuvolcos kept the novices working hard, teaching them the rudiments of swordplay. ‘Everything starts and stops at the same time,’ he repeated over and over, attempting to commit this to their memories. ‘It’s no good to strike, then move in. Everything starts and stops at the same time. The body moves as one.’
As the Gaul looked after the overall drills, Titus moved amongst the novices, correcting stances and form with a word here and there, often punctuating his remarks with a swat from the vine staff.
His eye fell upon Lysandra as she performed Catuvolcos’s commands. Her movements were perfect but he could tell her mind was elsewhere. He walked up and slapped her on the rump with his staff. ‘Come, Spartan! Keep your mind here, not in the clouds!’
The strange ice-coloured eyes flicked towards him for the fraction of an instant. ‘My name is Lysandra,’ she said, her voice strangely subdued. ‘Not Spartan.’
‘Put some effort into it, girl.’ He ignored the statement.
‘Concentrate on your task at hand.’
Lysandra frowned and continued, putting more vigour into her movements. Titus could tell that the increased effort was a facade. He shook his head and moved off, bawling at one of the Germans.
For Lysandra, the day passed slowly. The exercises were tiresome for her, and the hours passed in a haze as she moved from one drill to the next, not really hearing anything that Catuvolcos said.
It was enough for her to catch a glance of his initial demonstration to ascertain the pattern the work would follow.
There was no honour in this she told herself. It was a waste of time. At least in the Temple her training had been in worship of the goddess. Bringing Sparta to mind caused her to flush with shame; she was a slave, and unworthy to console herself with daydreams of a home that was no longer hers.
She was just Lysandra now.
X
They were drilled unceasingly each day, the trainers becoming ever more critical of their efforts, demanding perfection from each movement. And as their skill increased, so their exercises became more complex. From merely standing and executing strikes they advanced to moving forwards, backwards; they were taught to change the angle of their attack; to turn with speed and efficiency.
From striking empty air they moved to the sandbags. The trainers would set the heavy canvas sacks swinging and the novices were to strike the moving targets.
‘It’s simple,’ Stick bawled at them. ‘Hit the mark or be hit yourselves.’ A miss would result in a sharp blow from his vine staff. Even as Stick hurled abuse supplemented by physical threat, Catuvolcos played accompaniment to him, constantly exhorting the women that ‘Everything starts and stops at the same time.
You must flow around your opponent. Lose the tension in your bodies.’
As the weeks passed the novices learned quickly, even gaining the grudging approval of Titus. From hitting the sandbags, they advanced to running the gauntlet, weaving their way through the wooden avenues as the canvass bags were swung at them. Satisfied with their coordination, Titus gave the order that they were ready to move on to the more complex combination drills, using the sword and shield in concert.
They were given the scutum, the shield common to the Legions of Rome. As Lysandra hefted the unfamiliar item, she noted it was much lighter than the Hellene hoplon she was used to. The scutum was tall, protecting one’s own body, whereas the round, bowl-shaped hoplon was designed primarily to defend the person to one’s left in the Hellene phalanx.
It made sense, she thought to herself. The ancient Hellene phalanx was a massed formation, using the spear as the primary weapon of attack. The legionary relied on the sword and thus needed more personal protection. In single combat, she knew, the weight of the hoplon would prove more of a hindrance than a help.
Catuvolcos bade them form lines in front of the straw mannequins. ‘This,’ he told them, ‘is your enemy. You must see this in your mind. Strike hard and fast, as you would against a real opponent.’
Lysandra stood behind Hildreth. Having seen the German perform her drills, she knew that the redhead was an accomplished swordswoman.
‘Treat that as your enemy?’ Hildreth called out in her thickly accented Latin, gesturing with her sword.
Catuvolcos nodded, and at that Hildreth took off at a run towards one of the straw men screaming, ‘Death to the Romans!’ which provoked scattered laughter from the barbarian tribeswomen.
Hildreth’s wooden blade whistled as it cut through the air in a broad strike, hitting the mannequin’s head, causing hanks of straw to explode skywards. Not content with decapitating her inanimate foe, she bashed her shield into it, hacking down with her weapon in a frenzy.
Catuvolcos laughed. ‘Brutal, but effective, Hildreth! Good work.
The Roman is dead!’ The barbarian women cheered at that, and even the Romans among the novices grinned wryly. They understood that the derision was not directed at them personally but rather at those who ruled the empire that had enslaved them.
‘Lysandra!’ Catuvolcos called.
Lysandra set her shield and held her sword close to her right hip, its tip pointing upwards at a precise angle. The shield covered her body from eye to knee as she marched deliberately towards the mannequin. When she was only five paces from the mark she suddenly accelerated and the sword thrust out like a viper, the point sinking three inches into the breast of the straw man.
She glanced at Catuvolcos, who merely nodded once, and she returned to the back of the line. It was pointless to charge wildly into the fight, she knew. Slashing strokes with the sword may look more impressive, but her ‘opponent’ was as dead as Hildreth’s and she had expended none of the effort the German had. It was an example of the difference in their psyche, she supposed.
As the sun began to set, Catuvolcos called halt to the day’s proceedings, instructing the women to stack their gear and go for their evening meal. He watched Lysandra, who as always detached herself from the main group, engaging in none of the chatter and camaraderie that the shared learning of new skills had built up among the women. He too had noticed a change in her over the past weeks. The arrogance had gone from her walk and, whilst she performed all exercises and drills adequately, there was a slump in her shoulders. He decided to call her to him, telling himself that she needed his counsel.
‘Your training is progressing well,’ he said as she approached.
She nodded briefly while he found himself becoming distracted by the way the sun had cast a reddish gold tint to her pale, beautiful face. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, but not as well as you could do.’
‘Have I failed in any of the tasks you have set me?’
‘No. But neither have you excelled,’ he said quietly. ‘We know that you are a trained warrior, Lysandra. Where is your fire?’
Catuvolcos felt his throat catch as she smiled at him, realising that this was the only time he had seen her do so with genuine feeling, her face bereft of the usual ironic, sneering cast.
‘I have nothing to fight for,’ she said.
He took a step towards her — too close, he knew, but he could not help himself. ‘Your dignity, Lysandra. You are fighting for your dignity. Soon you will begin your first mock contests and you’ll be judged on them. Those that fail will be sold on. You will become a slave. A true slave. Here, at least there is some semblance of freedom, some chance at regaining a life.’